For a long moment, I lay still, staring at the canopy above my bed while Uzazzu sang.
The city pulsed with life. Drums rolled like distant thunder, voices rose in chants of praise, and somewhere beyond the walls, trumpets blared in steady rhythm. Today they would crown a king — my brother, Idris — and the whole kingdom was awake to see it.
But I would not go.
Instead of the royal silks laid out for me at dawn, I had dressed myself in the plainest robe I could find, a dark wrap that fell loosely around my shoulders. My hair had been combed, but I left it unadorned. No gold circlet touched my brow. No beads sang at my ankles. Let them crown their king; today,
I would not play princess. The air was thick with the smell of roasting meat and burning incense wafting from the city, but my stomach was as hollow as it had been for weeks.
When I stepped into the courtyard, the servants went quiet. They bowed, but
not deeply. Their eyes slid away from mine.
"That is the princess who brought war to Uzazzu."
"The one who let her brother sit on her throne."
"The one who brings death wherever she goes"
The whispers felt louder than the drums. I kept my head high, though my cheeks burned. I had not stayed away out of grief — not entirely. Grief had been my excuse, my shield. What kept me from the coronation was something sharper, darker,it struck NY very core.
Shame.
The sound of celebration beyond the palace walls only sharpened the ache in my chest. When Idris was crowned, he would wear the same iron circlet my father had worn. The same one my grandfather had borne into battle when Uzazzu was still young and wild. Today the people would chant Idris's name, raise their spears in salute, and call him King.
A memory rose unbidden — my father's voice on a quieter day:
"A crown is heavy, Amira. It will cut you if you are not careful."
I swallowed against the sudden sting in my eyes.
By nightfall, the crown would have chosen Idris. And what would it make of me?
I turned away from the courtyard and headed toward the stables. I needed to
see my horse, the one who had carried me and Nala back through fire and dust from Kano. She was tethered near the far wall, flicking her ears at the flies, and my heart softened when she nickered at my approach.
As I passed by grandmother's hut, I hesitated. The memory came unbidden —
her hand striking my face, the sting hot on my skin, the gasps of the council. My throat tightened, and I hurried on before the memory could choke me.
I had just knelt to run a brush down my mare's sleek flank when a shadow fell over the yard.
The Madawaki stood there, straight-backed, his frame tall enough to make the doorway seem small behind him. He was dressed in dark hides, the leather polished to a near-glow, and a wide belt of woven gold threads crossed his chest. There was nothing gaudy about him — but he looked every inch a man set apart, carved from authority and discipline.
"You did not come," he said.
I kept brushing the horse. "They have a king. They do not need me there." I remembered how quiet and observant he had been that day I confronted Idris and the council. He was the only one who looked at me with
kind eyes.
Was it pity? Yes, but in that moment I needed support
"You think shame excuses you," he said quietly. His voice had the weight of a drumbeat.
I stilled, my fingers tightening around the brush. "I am not ashamed," I lied.
His gaze did not waver. "Your brother told the people you were bedridden from grief. That you refused to eat. That the crown weighed on your heart."
I let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Typical Idris. Always quick with a story when truth will not do."
The Madawaki took a step closer. "He spared your name," he said. "Do not despise him for it."
I finally turned to face him. "Then why are you here?"
"Because grief is a weak companion," he said. "It keeps you in bed when the kingdom marches forward. It robs you of your strength until there is nothing left but shadows."
"You think this is about grief?" My voice sharpened. "You think I cannot walk into that hall because my heart is broken?"
"I think," he said slowly, "that you are standing still while the world moves on."
He looked at me, and something in his eyes was both a challenge and invitation.
"Your brother sits the throne now, but a kingdom is not kept by kings alone. Uzazzu needs warriors. And you—" his voice dropped lower, "—you need to remember you are not made of clay. You are iron."
His words struck deep, unsettling something I had buried these past weeks.
"I am no warrior," I said, though even I could hear the weakness in it.
"Then come and learn to be one," he said. "Join the Masu Jikin Karfe.Train. Bleed. Sweat until the woman you are now dies, and the one you were meant to be is born."
I turned back to the horse, stroking her mane to hide the storm in my face.
A princess turned into a mere warrior? Haba mana!
None of our ancestors have ever taken this path before. Would I not be tarnishing our image the more?
"And if I refuse?"
He did not raise his voice. He did not need to. "Then you will stay here, feeding this horse, polishing memories of what could have been. The people will keep whispering. And you will keep hearing them."
He turned to leave, then paused. "We leave at dawn. If you are coming, be ready."
When he was gone, I stayed in the yard until the sky turned the color of black ink. Beyond the walls, the city roared with joy, singing Idris's name.
I pressed my forehead against my mare's neck and shut my eyes. Tomorrow, the
city would quiet. Uzazzu would rest beneath its new king.
And I?
Maybe I would awaken to a new path.